Between Friends Read online

  Let’s face it, there’s desperate, and then there’s me.

  I arrived in one piece (although I did take a faint smell of a stable yard into the pub with me) and we had a lovely dinner – all very Scottish West Coast, oysters, scallops etc. etc. – and the conversation was fun. But my God, the man loved himself. The pub was packed with tourists, most of whom I’d met in the café during the previous few days and after several glasses of Sauvignon Blanc, Sven went to the toilet and I realised that there were only five words on everyone’s minds – ‘will she or won’t she?’ I looked around and realised that absolutely everyone in there, including Sven, and let’s face it, including me, expected our evening to end in Sven’s bedroom. I felt like a tart – and I don’t mean Bakewell. So I thanked Sven for a lovely evening, jumped on Hyde and left. Sven was too cool to care.

  Anya was waiting for me at my house when I got home. She’d lit the fire and the candles were burning – what that woman doesn’t know isn’t worth knowing. She asked no questions but insisted we had a nightcap. We played cards and I eventually fell asleep on the settee. I woke up this morning with a cashmere blanket over me and the fire stoked up – and that’s the benefit of sisterhood for you. My days of hooking up with transient men are over, but if my resolve weakens (and I can’t believe I passed on a ripped body like Sven’s) I have learned one thing: if Anya’s nose starts twitching, I must stop flirting.

  Lots of love, Aggie

  Bluey

  From: Polly

  To: Aggie

  Date: 15 February

  Hi, Aggie

  A few observations … life in the desert is SHIT. I stink! The proper collective noun for the army is ‘Wankers’. The Iraqis will never give in, not really. I will probably snuff it in a chemical attack. The bogs are shit, but at least I can now sit to poo as my arse is no longer cleaner than the toilet seat, although I do have to be careful not to zip a few flies into my pants when I pull my trousers up. Gethyn is miserable too. He’s having a morality crisis as he knows that if he wasn’t in the RAF, he’d be marching on Downing Street brandishing an anti-war banner.

  Cheer me up, Aggie! Did Mr Perfect Pants show up? Perhaps I should have a go at writing down my own wishes while I’m in the desert. A full moon over the desert is an awesome sight so I reckon it must be four times more powerful (in terms of magic) than the itsy bitsy thing we get at home. I’ll give a go on the next full moon, but with that kind of power, I really had better be careful what I wish for, eh?

  I got your letter about your mum’s behaviour and I wish I could phone you. Am I surprised she’s behaved this way? No, not at all. Her behaviour always struck me as irrational. She’s a child, Aggie, and just like a child I genuinely don’t believe she has any concept that her behaviour is bizarre, but she seems to be unable to cope with rationalising emotion. True, she’s also a passive-aggressive nightmare, but you aren’t going to change that - you aren’t going to change her. My ‘pocket psychology handbook’ suggests she’s frightened you’ll leave permanently and so she pushes you away before you do. I was going to suggest that you ask Anya for some spiritual healing, but if there is one thing I’m realising while I’m over here it’s this - the only real healer on this planet is Time.

  Gethyn and I had a chat the other day about something that’s been bothering me. He said I should visualise a problem I have by placing it in a hot air balloon. Then I had to visualise myself desperately clinging on to the balloon from underneath. He said, while ever I hold on, I’ll be pulled in the wrong direction, and no matter how much I try, eventually I won’t be able to cling on anymore, and if I hold on too long, eventually, I’ll fall from a great height and get hurt. He said the best thing is to just let go while your feet are still on the ground – and whenever the pain comes back, accept it, but visualise the balloon and keep letting it go. But you know, even though we might be dragged into the guts of hell, there are some balloons that are welded to us and are impossible to let go of. I’m hopeful that one day, the thing will have simply drifted off while I was looking in another direction, and I won’t even have noticed.

  Also, while I’m on a roll (sorry) I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I think you should stop looking for a fella for a while and focus on something more important. Ignoring Isabella is insane. I’m afraid I’m going to give you some tough love now, but ignoring emails, phone calls or texts from her isn’t fair - and it’s exactly what your mother does to you. Even if Isabella and the publisher are getting on your wick, ignoring them is rude, Agatha Isadora Braithwaite, and it displays a lack of courage. Write to Isabella with the absolute truth, rather than run away from the problem, and this will fix the issue immediately. You aren’t suddenly going to produce a finished novel in the next couple of weeks, so tell them, then go to that café of yours and have a bloody good laugh or cry or dance or anything, really.

  Do you remember that time when I brought Dad to the park to talk sense into you rather than leave you to smoke pot on the roundabout with Shane Jackson? That was a turning point in your life. If I’d left you to your own devices, you would never have been as successful as you are now and I’m not going to sit back and watch you throw the towel in again. You need a break from writing stories for a bit, that’s all. Helping at the café is perfect, but don’t get side-tracked. I know you’re lonely, but please do yourself a favour and put finding a man to one side for a little while. Try to be happy single for a while (I know I’m being a bloody great big hypocrite but it’s much easier to sort other people’s problems out, rather than your own) but if we can both learn to be truly happy alone – without husbands or babies and mothers - then we will only ever know happiness when, hopefully, we’re blessed with finding these people, and we’ll be better prepared for whatever life holds in store in the future (that’s the theory, anyway).

  Love, Pol

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Subject: The Worst Ghost Writer Ever!

  Date: 19 February

  Hello, Isabella

  I’m so very sorry to have been incommunicado lately. Are you terribly cross with me? The thing is, my very close friend who lives in an (almost) inaccessible part of Scotland, has had a family catastrophe and pleaded with me to rush to Scotland on a mercy mission to help keep her little café open so that her business doesn’t fold. What could I do but drop everything and rush to her side? Internet access has taken a while to arrange and the phone lines are hit and miss but, fingers and toes crossed, this email will be delivered successfully.

  As far as the latest manuscript goes, I will confess that My Foolish Heart is not coming along particularly well, and I’m afraid I will not make the deadline. I know this will not be the news you were hoping for, but I wanted to escape for a while in the hope that the creative juices would start to flow again. The café isn’t busy at this time of year so I’ll get cracking over the next couple of weeks and have the first draft with you by the end of April – can you get this squared away with everyone?

  So, how are you? How are Saffron and Anise-Star? Did Anise get her new pony?

  With much love, Aggie.

  P.S. I’m truly sorry to have let you down, especially after all you have done for me. I completely understand if you choose to find another writer.

  Bluey

  From: Polly

  To: Aggie

  Date: 19 February

  Hi, Ag

  I sent you a letter of tough-love a few days ago and I really shouldn’t have. I’m so sorry. Your email to me about your date with Sven must have crossed in the post and now I feel like such an arse. Your letters are fantastic and I know you’re only trying to keep me amused. Please, please pay no attention to anything I said.

  But anyway, I have some upbeat news from the shithole for once. Gethyn and I had a brilliant time this morning: believe it or not there is great fun to be had in the simple act of digging a trench. The Sergeant Major threw a couple of spades in our direction an
d said we had to dig a trench directly outside of our tent in case the war suddenly kicks off and the scud alarm sounds when we’re asleep. Obedient as ever, we got digging. Now when I say trench, you’re better off imagining a mouse scratching than a trench, but you have no idea how hard digging a trench actually is, even in sand. We dug to about a foot deep, then gave up, laughing. We aren’t worried. When the shit hits the fan we’ll not be in our tent anyway, we’ll be in the HQ tent supporting the guys on the frontline, so we think the depth of the trench is pretty much immaterial, but it gave us some exercise for a few hours, which I’m guessing was the whole point. If we do have to use it and are hit by a scud, the trench will double up as a coffin, so it’s perfect.

  So, in the army’s eyes, Gethyn and I are even more effing useless pieces of poo than they suspected, but as Gethyn said, we’re not useless, just pragmatic free-thinkers who refuse to follow the crowd. There is a deep, ingrained level of prejudice in the British armed forces and it goes like this: the army resent/hate the RAF and tolerate the Navy. The Navy tolerate the Army and look down on the RAF. The RAF resent no-one because it’s an emotion savoured by those who are discontent with their lot and the RAF are, on the whole, a comfortable, contented clan who spend a great deal of their time hunkered down in hotels (according to the army). Everyone respects the Royal Marines.

  Because we’re relaxed, non-conformists (well, Gethyn is and I’m taking my lead from him) I’m categorised as nothing more than a civilian and, to be honest, they aren’t wrong. Although, you would have been proud of me the other day. A young army captain shouted, ‘Hey, Weather Girl’ across the desert to catch my attention. Now, I don’t mind being hollered at, but I won’t be regarded as a girl. This might sound a bit precious on my behalf, but when you’re on the brink of war and are one of only a handful of women surviving in a hostile environment (and can barely pick up your rucksack), it’s vital not to be seen as a modern day Private Benjamin. I turned around, walked towards him, smiled and said, ‘Call me that again and I’ll cut you balls off, dickhead’ and then walked away. I know! ME!! I said that!

  I genuinely have no idea what came over me, but I did get my period the next day…

  Love, Pol

  P.S. Guess what? Gethyn is in a relationship. Has been for years, apparently. She’s from Surrey – dead posh (he doesn’t seem too enthusiastic though).

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Josh

  To: Polly

  Date: 19 February

  Polly

  Of course my letter was impersonal. You walked out on me over a year ago. You asked for a divorce. I’ve barely had two words from you in all of that time – what do you expect? Regarding the ‘gassed to death’ comment, you said in your first letter that you were perfectly safe on the general’s staff and I believed you. Why tell me you’re safe if you aren’t? Stop testing me.

  Josh

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Subject: Re: The Worst Writer Ever!

  Date: 19 February

  Dear, Aggie

  You are not the worst writer ever and you haven’t let me down. I’m just relieved to have heard from you. And I’m not on the lookout for another writer, you ninny. My voice is your voice, and it’s a voice worth waiting for so I’ll arrange for an extension to the deadline. You’ve always delivered everything we’ve ever asked for, so don’t worry.

  The girls are fine but Anise didn’t get the pony. She’s going through a phase of despising me, so the pony had to be put on hold. They are both going to Switzerland to stay with their father over Easter. I hate it when they’re away. I’m hoping Anise misses me this time, but I won’t hold my breath. The winter seems endless, I’ll be glad when it’s spring. Where are you, exactly? Where is the café? Keep in touch.

  Yours affectionately, Isabella

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Subject: Re: Re: The Worst Ghost Writer Ever!

  Date: 19 February

  Dear, Isabella

  Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I’m so relieved. You’re a wonderful, wonderful friend. The café is in Appledart on the west coast of Scotland. It’s heaven but I must dash as I have the day’s cakes to bake. Isn’t it odd that I’m saying this to you – it’s usually the other way around! Maybe you should try your hand at writing now that I’m baking, but don’t be too good at it or I’ll find myself out of a job. With much love.

  Aggie

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Aggie

  To: Gethyn

  Date: 19 February

  Sir,

  Two things …

  1. Your postscript, ‘Perhaps the crux of the whole issue is that you and I differ in what constitutes as romance’ was clearly an attempt to rile me, the implication being that I have a materialistic view of romance while you are driven by a deeper ideology.

  2. Trust me, in real life, a genuinely poor man has more pressing things on his mind than romance, and if the silly fool hasn’t, he should have.

  3. I do not wish to discuss the socio/economic benefits of a harem with you and never will.

  4. I’ve often wondered what the view is like from the moral high ground. Perhaps you could enlighten me? Does spending a great deal of time at such a level lead to a lightness of head? This could explain a great deal.

  5. With regards to your question about the exclamation mark, I once supported Isabella at a book signing on Oxford Street. A giant punctuation mark was hanging from the ceiling directly above her head. It became loose and began to fall. I noticed and pushed her out of the way, which was every bit as dramatic as it sounds. Unfortunately, I was not nimble enough to dodge the bullet myself, and sustained a deep gash to the skull and lost consciousness for a few minutes (ok, moments). As my editor forced me to kill off use of the exclamation mark early on in my career, one might regard it as karmic revenge.

  I’ve sent you another book - For What it’s Worth (which is both the title and the sentiment).

  Regards,

  Agatha

  Bluey

  From: Polly

  To: Aggie

  Date: 21 February

  Hi, Aggie

  We’ve moved – we’re always moving. The tent has been packed away and I’m sleeping with a few others in the open desert again next to a truck with a stretch of tarpaulin draped across us as we sleep. It’s still freezing cold at night but the heat will kick in soon and then I suppose I’ll complain about that, too. Last Friday I managed to scam a trip into Kuwait city with Gethyn. He has a civilian friend from med school who works there. We met up with him and stayed in his apartment. It was the most amazing night of my life. Guess what? I had a bath – an actual bath, Aggie - AND a gin and tonic (life does not get better than that). I’m now back with the army in the desert and have moments of absolute abject terror when I think about what may happen soon. In a way though, I wish the war would just kick off. After all, if I’m going to die, I’d rather still have the aftertaste of a good strong G&T in my mouth as I draw my last breath.

  Love, Pol

  Bluey

  From: Polly

  To: Mrs Day

  Date: 21 February

  Oh, Mum, how did I end up in this mess?

  Why didn’t I just stay put in my marriage and in my lovely home in Devon? I wish my future held more certainty, but from where I stand at the moment, I’m looking ahead to a wide open abyss with no structure and no real purpose.

  I’ve done what you suggested and stopped writing to Angelica in my journal, but it doesn’t help. No matter what I do or where I go, she’s always there. I know it sounds odd, but I keep getting the scent of tomatoes - not the tomatoes you buy at the supermarket, but the real tomatoes in Dad’s greenhouse. Do you remember the day I lost Angelica? I was holding her in my arms. Her skin was so perfect, this immaculate child, but she was so cold. Then Dad came and took her from me. He smelt of tomatoes that day.

  Anyw
ay, I’m just sitting and watching as HQ is being packed up around me. Off we go, nomads in the desert. I had my anthrax jab yesterday, God my arm hurts. I would give anything to be home right now. I’m a whinging, whinging, woman and I’m not good enough to wear this uniform. Don’t worry about my ramblings too much. I’m only letting off steam. Living out here is a paradox. You cannot help but live each day as it comes and yet I find that I have too much time on my hands to be able to live in the moment. I’d give anything to be at home with you and Dad right now, sat in front of the fire with the dog on my knee - watching kids’ telly, drinking tea and eating marmalade on toast, asking Dad to nip to the shop for a video and some French Fancies, like he used to. Maybe if Josh and I got back together and somehow, miraculously, we had another baby, the sadness would go away. Did this work for you? Did I ever really replace Anna? I know you’ve never wanted to talk about her, but maybe it’s time.

  Love you.

  Pol x

  Bluey

  From: Gethyn

  To: Aggie

  Date: 21 February

  Agatha

  Your book arrived today. Thank you. Would you like me to review it?

  Gethyn